


Vines

by wellthen



Category: DC - Fandom
Genre: Bondage, Drugged Sex, Endocrinology, F/F, Femdom, Improvised Sex Toys, Lesbian Sex, Mutual Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rope Bondage, Sex, Vines, neuroscience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:33:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24669190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellthen/pseuds/wellthen
Summary: Harley Quinn wakes up tied to a chair.This is not an unusual start to her day.She writhes (what a fun word, w r i t h e s) against her restraints.Her restraints writhe back: vines.
Relationships: Pamela Isley & Harleen Quinzel, Pamela Isley/Harleen Quinzel
Kudos: 110





	Vines

Harley Quinn wakes up tied to a chair.

This is not an unusual start to her day. 

She writhes (what a fun word, w r i t h e s) against her restraints. 

Her restraints writhe back: vines.

Of course. 

“I know what you want, Poison Ivy,” she sings out. 

Poison Ivy stands at a table nearby, naked except for a lab coat and her glasses, staring at one of three beeping monitors on the table. 

She is not paying attention to Harley.

“What I want,” She says, turning to look at a different beeping monitor. “What is that?” 

Harley writhes against the vines again. “You’re going to use me in some anti-establishment plant plot. I know your games.” 

Poison Ivy takes off her glasses and types something into the loudest beeping monitor. 

“Okay,” she says. “Can you look at this model to make sure the stamen isn’t secreting too much progesterone?”

“I’ll never cooperate with you, villain.” 

“Harl. Seriously.” 

Harley doesn’t have to look at the model. “It’s fine,” she says.

Poison Ivy is always so cautious, used to leaves that wither at the slightest change in PH. 

Harley never worried about titration in her experiments, even the ones she did with IRB approval. The hypothalamus can do amazing things, even when overstimulated by genetically modified pheromone releasing vegetation. 

The human nervous system is elastic. Flood it with growth hormone, adrenaline, estrogen, dopamine — sproing. It always bounces back. 

Harley giggles. 

Poison Ivy rolls her eyes.

“Whatever. They’re your neurotransmitters.”  
She types another line into the monitor and the room is alive, vines writhing everywhere just like Harley’s. One glides to her chair, wrapping around her ankle. Another glides up her calf, her knee, her thigh, going higher. 

Poison Ivy hits a button and the vines fall, lifeless. Harley whimpers, pouts.

“You never ravage me when you kidnap me. It’s not fair.” 

Poison Ivy rubs the bridge of her eyebrows and her cheeks turn dark green. 

Harley is distracted for a second — how does chlorophyll in the circulatory system change somatic expressions of emotion? 

Then Poison Ivy’s lab coat falls open and Harley is distracted again. 

“It’s not fair that my girlfriend cheats on me with her abusive ex every other week and I have to stage a heist, knock her out, or kiss a bunch of henchmen to get her back.” 

Harley wanted to object: it wasn’t cheating, it was habit. 

A piece of neurocircuitry she had yet to revise, a loop to be closed. Excessive but meaningless. 

Mr. J was harmless in capacity if not intention, and the chemicals were hard to resist— Serotonin, dopamine, cortisol. Especially at the end, when she groveled, desperate, at Poison Ivy’s feet, begging her to let her stay, for real this time. 

Without conscious cognitive processing, something she avoided at all costs, it was easy to just... trip, and fall back in the old loop. 

“Mr. J always ravages you, right?” Poison Ivy asks, closing her lab coat and crossing her arms to sit on the desk. “He ravages you in missionary position every night.”

Harley squirms, so different from writhing.  
The vines don't squirm with her. 

“I told you that in confidence, villain.” 

Pamela — Poison Ivy — rolls her eyes again.

“What. A boring. secret.”

She hits another key and the vines holding Harley’s thighs open come back to life. The vines sprout short, sharp thorns that drive themselves deep into Harley’s skin. Pamela laughs. 

Harley laughs too until she realizes 

There’s something growing in her mouth. 

Roots: thin white whispery ones accumulating between her tongue and her teeth. The roots grow thicker, and a fruit, a seed pod, something inflates beneath her tongue, forcing her lips to part. For a minute, her adrenals get the best of her, I can’t breathe. But she can breathe, her airways are fine. 

She curls her tongue and sucks on the seed pod.  
There’s something in it — there always is with Poison Ivy. A sedative? Her head feels heavy.

Pamela leans against the table, watching. 

“Ugh, she’s so mad,” whines the part of her brain that’s usually in control.

“She’s so hurt,” whispers the quiet part, easy to bury under a tornado of hormones.

The vines around her legs are moving again, spreading her thighs even wider — she wasn’t wearing underwear when she woke up tied to this chair. Another vine joins those two, moving up and in. 

She tries to spit out the seed pod, but that just makes it release more of whatever chemical compound is inside. The vine between her legs reaches her opening. It starts to fuck her slow, insistent. 

Everything is moving so slowly, except for Pamela, who doesn’t move at all. Still but alive. 

“You really are just like a plant,” Harley tries to tell her, but her lips, her tongue, are too heavy. She sucks deeper on the seed pod and stops caring, letting the wave of neurochemicals take her over. 

“No more talking,” Pamela says softly. “You don’t have anything to say I want to hear right now, Harl.” Her hand moves underneath her lab coat.

Harley rides the vine inside of her going so, so, slow. All of the things she wants to say, that she usually says — you’ll never get away with this I’ll never do it again please touch me baby please I’ll do anything — are gone, her prefrontal cortex offline. 

Petals unfurl against her eyelashes, growing out of the seed pod in her mouth. 

Pam’s lab coat is fully open now. She never stops watching Harley. One hand steadys against the table as she shoves four fingers inside herself, rough. 

“I’m sorry,” Harley tries to say, forming the words with her heavy tongue and her heavy lips around the seed pod. “I was wrong.” 

“I know,” says the vine inside of her, thrusting deeper. “I forgive you. I’ll always forgive you. Just let go.”

So Harley does. 

When she comes back into the world the vines around her arms and legs are gone. Pamela climbs off the table, her hair sweaty, and bends to cup Harley’s face in her hands. She gently scoops the seed pod out of her mouth and pushes its roots into the dirt next to the chair. 

She catches Harley around the waist as she starts to slide out of the chair, then pulls them to lean against one of the legs of the table, holding Harley in her arms.

Harley still feels so slow, so quiet. She presses her lips against Pamela’s collarbone and smiles when she doesn’t pull away. 

“What was that?” She asks finally. Pamela sighs. “An opioid from that pharmaceutical company selling $1000 inhalers. With… additives.

Their CEO has a $25 million dollar deposit at Gotham Bank at 5:45 today on his personal calendar.” 

She grabs Harley’s hand. “The dose I gave you should wear off in 48 minutes. Make sure you write notes about the neurological impact when you can move again, okay?”

Harley can tell Pamela has more to say from the way she holds her shoulders, but she doesn’t say anything else in words. 

“i love you, Pamela.” She whispers. 

“shhh,” Pamela says, pulling her closer. “i love you too. 

rest up, we have a bank to rob.”


End file.
